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POEMS 



THE 
COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D., LL.D. 



jff 






NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 

1910 






Copyright, 1910, by 
The Century Co. 

Published February, iqio 



THE DE VINNE PRE88 



(g'Ci.A256015 



•ffn ^cmoriam 

SARAH BUTIERWISTER 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



The Comfort of the Hills .... 3 

Ode on a Lycian Tomb 18 

An Ode of Battles 27 

The Song of the Captured Confeder- 
ate Battle-flags 35 

The Pure of Heart 39 

Lines Given to M. at Christmas . . 49 

To THE Forget-me-nots 51 

Prayer 54 

The Angels of Prayer 55 

Lullaby 56 

Friendship 57 

Love 58 

Innogen . 60 

Indian Summer 61 



vu 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Sea-gull .... 65 

To A Magnolla. Flower 70 

Jekyl Island . . . 76 

Storm-waves and Fog on Dorr's Point, 
Bar Harbor 77 

The Birthday of Washington . . . .79 

Florence 82 

Which? S^ 

Books and the Man 84 

To Abraham Jacobi, M.D 92 

In Memory of William Henry Drummond 96 



PREFACE 

In the year 1882 I printed the first of six 
small volumes of verse. The editions of 
each were limited to two or three hundred 
copies, with an average sale of about fifty- 
copies. Having generously given away 
the rest, I am amused to find that these 
volumes are now sought for by the col- 
lector of first editions and are occasionally 
bringing absurd prices. 

This present collection is the only one 
I have not paid for outright and is a ven- 
ture of my publishers which speaks well 
for their courage. 

The three poems at the beginning of this 
volume lay for many years in my port- 
folios. "The Comfort of the Hills" is 
now publicly printed for the first time. 



PREFACE 

The two odes have appeared in The Cen- 
tury Magazine; "On a Lycian Tomb" was 
first printed in the selection of my poems 
pubHshed at my expense by Macmillan in 
London. 

This volume had a still more brilliant 
success than its predecessors in America. 
In all, eighteen copies sold in the first year 
and, so far as I know, none since. Two 
years later I was asked to say w^hat was to 
be done with the remaining volumes. Un- 
fortunately, the English publishers had 
placed in them a statement that the book 
was copyrighted in America. This was 
true only as to a part of its contents, 
but it absolutely prevented the exportation 
to this country. Accordingly, I desired 
Mr. Macmillan to burn the rest of the vol- 
umes or to consign them afresh to the 
paper-mill to serve for reincarnation of the 
poems in some more fortunate form. I 
asked also that fifty bound copies be 



PREFACE 

sent to America. They were promptly 
stopped in the New York Custom-House. 
A book said to be copyrighted in America, 
printed in England, returned to America, 
the law forbids to enter. I asked what 
should be done with them. Might I buy 
them? I could not. I believe it was 
finally concluded to cremate them. This 
history of the freaks of the copyright and 
the adventures of a book may not be with- 
out interest. 

S. Weir Mitchell. 
December lo, 1909. 



POEMS 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 



Blessed of the Lord be his land, for the 
chief things of the ancient mountains, and 
for the precious things of the lasting hills. 



Here have I wandered oft these many years 

Far from the world's restraint, my heart at ease, 

With equal liberty of joy or tears 

To welcome Nature's generosities, 

Where these gray summits give the unburdened 

mind 
To clearer thought, in freedom unconfined. 

What made this wide estate of hill and plain 
So surely mine to-day? Of God, the law 
That gave to joy the right of ampler reign— 



4 THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

For in love's title none may find a flaw, 
And mine the equities of tribute brought 
From vassal lands no earthly gold has bought. 



As flit gray gulls, with silver flash of wings, 

Leap and are lost the whitecaps of the sea 

When swoops the norther o'er the deep and sings 

Mad music in the hemlocks, and for me 

A litany of joy and hope and praise, 

Sweet to the man who knows laborious days. 

The wild hawk here is playmate of my thought. 
Like him I soar, upon as eager wings. 
And something of his liberty have caught, 
The simple pleasure in material things, 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 5 

Unvexed, in thoughtless joy a child to be, 
The moment's friend of all the eye can see. 

Kind to the dreamer is this solitude. 
Fair courtesies of silence wait to know 
What hopes are flattering a poet mood, 
Stirred by frail ecstasies that come and go. 
Like birds that let the quivering leaves prolong 
The broken music of their passing song. 

Here may we choose what company shall be ours ; 

Here bend before one fair divinity 

To whose dear feet we bring the spirit-flowers, 

Fragments of song, stray waifs of poetry. 

The orphans of dead dreams, more sweet than aught 

Won by decisive days of sober thought. 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

Day-dreams that feed the folly of the fool, 
The wisdom of the wise, the hour endears; 
Despite the discipline of life's stern school. 
And the gray quiet of monastic years, 
I sit, companioned by life's young desires, 
And warm my fancies at yon sunset fires. 

For 't is the children's hour, and I, the child, 
Self-credulous, am pleased myself to tell 
Stories that have no ending, ventures wild 
O'er chartless oceans to glad isles where dwell 
Loves that no bitter debt to time shall pay. 
Loves that to-morrow shall be as to-day. 

Ay, 't is enchantment's hour. A herald star 
Marshals the silent armies of the night. 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS J 

The eastward scarlet frets the waves. Afar 
Fades in the pallid west a violet light, 
And murmurs of the tide rise up to me, 
Huge breathing of the sea's immensity. 



Among the hills I know a dreaming lake 

No wind disturbs, and drowsily it seems 

The pictured stillness to itself to take. 

All day it sleeps, and then at evening dreams 

Brown twilight shadows,— till it dreams at dark 

A silver dream, the pale moon's crescent bark. 
* * * 

There is a hill-crest where the dwarfish forms 
Of crippled pines a scant subsistence win : 



8 THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

Gnarled by long battle with the winter storms, 
Scarred cousins of their stately forest kin, 
Whence came the force that waged victorious 

strife 
For the mere hold upon their meagre life? 

Companionable folk are they ; at ease 
Upon the rocks their wooden elbows rest. 
Something they hint of ancient pleasantries; 
Grim burgher soldiers they, who take with zest 
Their pension of the sunshine, half aware 
Of one with right their lazing life to share. 



As wearily the mountain crest I gain. 
Mysterious vigor feels the freshened mind, 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 9 

And wide horizons gladden eye and brain. 
Serenely confident I wait to find 
Thoughts that no clouded hours knew to guess 
Float upward to the light of consciousness. 

« 
Here truth the certainty of instinct feels, 

When joy akin to awe the soul acquires, . 

And beauty, God's interpreter, reveals 

Something of Him no meaner hour inspires. 

Help Thou my unbelief, that I may be 

By Nature's mother-hand led near to Thee. 

» 

Once, all there was of beauty on the earth 
Became religion. Love was but a prayer 
To gentle deities, whose sylvan mirth 
Heard man or maid, at dusk of eve, aware 



lO THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

Of gods who shared love's piety, and of faint 
Sweet whispers from some pagan flower saint. 

If these were dreams, I envy those who dreamed 

Into the world long dramas of belief, 

This joyous passion-play of gods who seemed 

To be so near to human joy and grief ; 

Or were they tender yearnings willed by Him 

Whose creed left lonely all the wood ways dim ? 

If I have lost this heritage divine, 

Some Pentecostal hour may give to me 

The tongues earth's childhood knew, and it be mine 

To read beyond what seems reality. 

Grant me this gift of wisdom's fullest flower, 

O fair Egeria of the evening hour. 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS II 

Lo, in the twilight's dim confessional 
Come aged voices from this ice-scarred rock ; 
I hear the avalanche in thunder fall, 
The glacier's many voices, and the shock 
When from these granite shoulders, seaward 

hurled. 
Fell the white ruin of an elder world. 
* * * 

My summer friends, the maples, slowly shed 
Their red and gold, are bare and gaunt and 

gray. 
In changeless quiet, towering overhead. 
Hemlock and pine defy the autumn's sway. 
The wintry winds. To them the birds shall bring 
A gracious autumn at the call of spring. 



12 THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

If time might hold for us no sad surprise 

Of autumn's mournful change, what joy it were, 

Earth- fed, deep-rooted, year by year to rise 

Where thought uplifted breathes serener air. 

And at life's ripest, of a summer day 

To feel the lightning fall and pass away. 
* * * 

Among these rifted rocks creep stealthily 
Faint dusking shadows, and the forest air 
Stirs when the topmost leaves, uneasily, 
A moment shiver in the winds that bear 
Hoarse murmurs from the unrepentant deep ; 
Like one who mutters of far deaths in sleep. 

A strange supremacy of quietness 

Awaits the thoughtful where, in wreckage vast, 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 1 3 

These riven rocks old agonies confess, 
The half-told story of a dateless past; 
Prophetic dooms of change the soul oppress, 
And some chill sense of ancient loneliness. 

Why in this scene my truant footsteps found 
Should come to me the urgent thought of death ? 
For when this ruin fell, the barren ground 
Knew naught of life, nor any mortal breath. 
Yet generous of color are to-day 
These moss-clad rocks, with fern and lichen gay. 

Alas, vain thought ! Death's royal loneliness 
Still bids the voice of love its silence share. 
Where, in that land of grief companionless. 
Familiar things a far remoteness wear. 



14 THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

And futile thoughts, Hke yearning tendrils, find 
No hold secure, and hope and faith are blind. 

Yet Nature stands, a finger on her lips. 
Glad mother of mysterious sympathy. 
Sure as the light that through the greenery 

slips, 
Far-winged at eve with loving certainty, 
To gild these glooming rocks, by glaciers worn. 
With constant promise of another morn. 

If Nature, soulless, knows not how to weep, 
Take that she has for thee. Wilt know how 

much? 
Bring here thy cares, and find upon the steep 
Some kingly healing in the wild wind's touch. 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 1 5 

The best of love and life is mystery,— 

Take thou the pine-trees' benedicite ! 

* * * 

The years that come as friend and leave as foe, 
The years that come as foes, and friends depart, 
Leave for remembrance more of joy than woe. 
All memory sifting with Time's gentle art. 
Till He who guides the swallow's wintry wing 
Gives to our grief- winged love as sure a spring. 

The mountain summit brings no bitter thought ; 
And in my glad surrender to its power, 
Familiar spirits come to me unsought. 
But unto thee, my child, the twilight hour. 
When level sun-shafts of the waning day 
Their girdling gold upon the forest lay. 



l6 THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 

Here, long ago, we talked or silent knew 

The woodland awe of things about to be. 

And, as the nearing shadows round us drew, 

Some growing sense of unreality, 

Ancestral pagan moods of far descent 

That thronged the peopled woods with wonderment. 

Art with me now, and this thy gentle hand ? 
Or is it that love's yearning love deceives. 
And in too real a solitude I stand. 
Hearing no footfall in the rustling leaves. 
Sole comrade of far sorrows, left alone 
The awakened memory of a dream to own ? 

Slow fades the light of day's most solemn hour. 
The autumn leaves are drifting overhead. 



THE COMFORT OF THE HILLS 1/ 

In vain I yearn for some compelling power 

To keep for me these ever-living dead. 

Peace, peace, sad heart ; for thee a gentle breeze, 

God's angelus, is sighing in the trees. 

Bar Harbor, 
September, 1906. 



ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB^ 



What gracious nunnery of grief is here ! 
One woman garbed in sorrow's every mood ; 
Each sad presentment celled apart, in fear 
Lest that herself upon herself intrude 
And break some tender dream of sorrow's day, 
Here cloistered lonely, set in marble gray. 

O pale procession of immortal love, 
Forever married to immortal grief ! 

1 On this famous monument, known as " Les Pleureuses," and now 
in the museum at Constantinople, one and the same woman is carved 
in many attitudes of grief. These eighteen figures stand niched be- 
tween Ionic columns. On the sarcophagus, above and below, are 
scenes of battle and the chase in bas-relief. 
i8 



ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB IQ 

All of life's childlike sorrow far above, 
Past help of time's compassionate relief : 
These changeless stones are treasuries of 

regret, 
And mock the term by time for sorrow set. 

Ah me ! what tired hearts have hither come 
To weep with thee, and give thy grief a voice! 
And such as have not added to life's sum 
The count of loss, they who do still rejoice 
In love which time yet leaveth unassailed. 
Here tremble, by prophetic sadness paled. 

Thou who hast wept for many, weep for me. 
For surely I, who deepest grief have known. 
Share thy stilled sadness, which must ever be 



20 ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB 

Too changeless, and unending like my own, 
Since thine is woe that knows not time's release. 
And sorrow that can never compass peace. 

He, too, who wrought this antique poetry, 
Which wakes sad rhythms in the mourning 

heart. 
Must oft with thee have wondered silently, 
Touched by the strange revealments of his art. 
When at thy side he watched his chisel's grace 
Foretell what time would carve upon thy face. 

If to thy yearning silence, which in vain 
Suggests its speechless plea in marbles old. 
We add' the anguish of an equal pain, 
Shall not the sorrow of these statues cold 



ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB 21 

Inherit memories of our tears, and keep 
Record of dear ones long in death asleep? 

Ah me! in death asleep; how pitiful, 
If in that timeless time the soul should wake. 
To wander heart-blind where no years may dull 
Remembrance, with a heart forbid to break. — 
Dove of my home, that fled life's stranded ark, 
The sea of death is shelterless and dark. 

Cold mourner set in stone so long ago. 

Too much my thoughts have dwelt with thee apart. 

Again my grief is young ; full well I know 

The pang reborn, that mocked my feeble art 

With that too human wail in pain expressed — 

The parent cry above the empty nest ! 



22 ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB 

II 

Fair worshiper of many gods, whom I 

In one God worship, very surely He 

Will for thy tears and mine have some reply 

When death assumes the trust of life, and we 

Hear once again the voices of our dead, 

And on a newer earth contented tread. 

Doubtless for thee thy Lycian fields were sweet. 
Thy dream of heaven no wiser than my own ; 
Nature and love, the sound of children's feet, 
Home, husband, friends— what better hast thou 

known ? 
What of the gods could ask thy longing prayer 
Except again this earth and love to share ? 



ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB 2^ 

For all in vain, with vexed imaginings, 
We build of dreams another earth than ours. 
And high in thought's thinned atmosphere, with 

wings 
That helpless beat, and mock our futile powers, 
Falter and flutter, seeing naught above. 
And naught below except the earth we love. 

Enough it were to find our own old earth 
With death's dark riddle answered, and 

unspoiled 
By fear, or sin, or pain ; where joy and mirth 
Have no sad shadows, and love is not foiled. 
And where, companioned by the mighty dead, 
The dateless books of time and fate are read. 



24 ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB 



m 

What stately melancholy doth possess 
This innocent marble with eternal doom ! 
What most imperious grief doth here oppress 
The one sad soul which haunts this peopled tomb 
In many forms that all these years have worn 
One thought, for time's long comment more 
forlorn ! 

Lo ! grief, through love instinct with silentness, 
Reluctant, in these marbles eloquent. 
The ancient tale of loss doth here confess. 
The first confusing, mad bewilderment. 
Life's unbelief in death, in love forespent. 
Thought without issue, childlike discontent. 



ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB 2$ 

Time, that for thee awhile did moveless seem, 
Again his glass hath turned : I see thee stand 
Thought-netted, or like one who in a dream 
Self-wildered, in some alien forest land 
Lone-wandering, in endless mazes lost, 
Wearily stumbles over tracks recrossed. 

Oft didst thou come in after days to leave 
Roses and laurel on thy warrior's grave, 
And with thy marble self again to grieve, 
Glad of what genius unto sorrow gave, 
Interpreting what had been and would be, 
Love, tears, despair, attained serenity. 

There are whom sorrow leaves full-wrecked. The 

great 
Grow in the urgent anguish of defeat, 



26 ODE ON A LYCIAN TOMB 

And with mysterious confidence await 
The silent coming of the bearer's feet ; 
Wherefore this quiet face so proudly set 
To front life's duties, but naught to forget. 

For life is but a tender instrument 
Whereon the master hand of grief doth fall, 
Leaving love's vibrant tissue resonant 
With echoes, ever waking at the call 
Of every kindred tone : so grief doth change 
The instrument o'er which his fateful fingers 
range. 
Bar Harbor, 1900. 



AN ODE OF BATTLES 1 

Long ages past 

The slow ice sledges bore 

These alien rocks from some far other shore ; 

Gray witnesses of power 

In some prophetic hour 

Dropped on the glacier's bed, 

Strange burial-stones, to find at last 

Their long-awaited dead. 

Here, as if to mock regret, 

Has careless nature set 

The wild rose and the violet ; 

1 Gettysburg and Santiago. 
27 



28 AN ODE OF BATTLES 

For what to her is battle's iron lot? 

She has no memory of a day 

When man had ceased to slay, 

And by her strife his war is infant play; 

Yet here the frail forget-me-not 

Entreats remembrance of what death may 

gain: 
For not in vain 
Upon this lone hillside 
Uncounted hopes have died ; 
And not in vain 
The lordship of the soul 
In that wild strife 
Asked an heroic dole, 
The tribute gift of life, 
While homes long held in bondage of their fears 



AN ODE OF BATTLES 29 

Heard what they too had spent and wailed in 

tears, — 
The loss of youth's young love and manhood's 

remnant years. 

Weep for thy many dead, 

O Northland, weep ! 

Even for thy triumph weep ! 

Here too our brothers sleep ; 

Not we alone have bled. 

Tears ! tears for those who lost ! 

For bitter was the cost 

When that ripe manhood at its flood 

Ebbed away in blood. 

Yet who beneath the shrouded sun 

Upon yon battle-wearied plain 



30 AN ODE OF BATTLES 

Could know they too had won, 
And had not died in vain ? 

Gone the days of Ungering hate ! 
Came at last a happier fate 
That welded state to state, 
When along the island shore 
We together stood once more, 
And the levin blight and thunder 
Were strange echoes of a day 
When Spain's galleons went under. 
Or, death-hunted, fled away. 
While the sturdy gales that keep 
Guard o'er England, beach and steep. 
Sped the billows from afar. 
Leaping hounds of the sea's wild war. 



AN ODE OF BATTLES 3 1 

And set them on the track 
Where, o'er ruin and o'er wrack, 
Shrouding all 

Fell the fog's gray funeral pall, 
And the sea-greed took its toll 
Of the pride of Philip's soul. 

Hark and hear, ye admirals dead ! 
Comrades of the burly deep. 
Whatsoever decks ye tread, 
Wheresoever watch ye keep, — 
Hark ! the channel surges still 
Roll o'er wrecks ye left to bide 
The master might of the sea's stern will, 
Scourge of storm and stress of tide : 
When upon the Spaniard's flight 



32 AN ODE OF BATTLES 

Closed in shame the northern night, 
Not yours alone the count of sorrow 
Ye left to some avenging morrow : 
Far-sown islands west and east, 
Thro' one long revel of misrule, 
Reign of tyrant, knave, or fool, — 
Cursed too the bigot and the priest. 
From their days of bitter need, 
From the sea-lords of our breed. 
To the patience of the strong 
Fell that heritage of wrong. 
Rest in peace, ye captains bold : 
When the tide of battle rolled 
Thunderous on the island shore, 
To thy children's hand the Lord 
Gave for judgment doom the sword. 



AN ODE OF BATTLES 33 

And at last forevermore 

On those haunted Cuban coasts 

That long-gathering debt was paid 

And the sad and silent ghosts 

Of unnumbered wrongs were laid. 

Awake, sad Island Sister ! Wake to be 

The glad young child of liberty. 

The storm of battle wholesomely 

Has swept thy borders free. 

Ringed with the azure of the Carib Sea, 

No more the joy of thy abounding waves 

Shall mock a land of slaves. 

And lo ! the matchless prize. 

Great kingdoms craved with eager eyes, 



34 AN ODE OF BATTLES 

Was ours blood-bought. 

With no base afterthought 

We left unransomed and complete 

Earth's richest jewel at fair Freedom's feet; 

Her dream of hope a glad reality; 

Our share a memory ! 

Ah, never since the lightning of gray war 

In other lands afar 

Dismembered nations smote, and justice slept 

While greed her plunder kept, 

Has conquest left no shame 

Upon the victor's name ; 

But here at last from war's sad field 

Proud honor bore a stainless shield, 

And o'er our silent dead the air 

Throbbed with Freedom's answered prayer. 



THE SONG OF THE CAPTURED CON- 
FEDERATE BATTLE-FLAGS 

BY A UNANIMOUS VOTE OF CONGRESS RETURNED 
TO THE STATES OF THE CONFEDERACY 

We loved the wild clamor of battle, 
The crash of the musketry's rattle, 

The bugle and drum. 
We have drooped in the dust, long and lonely ; 
The blades that flashed joy are rust only, 

The far-rolling war music dumb. 

God rest the true souls in death lying. 
For whom overhead proudly flying 

We challenged the foe. 
The storm of the charge we have breasted. 



36 CONFEDERATE BATTLE-FLAGS 

On the hearts of our dead we have rested. 
In the pride of a day long ago. 

Ah, surely the good of God's making 
Shall answer both those past awaking 

And life's cry of pain; 
But we nevermore shall be tossing 
On surges of battle where crossing 

The swift-flying death-bearers rain. 

Again in the wind we are streaming, 
Again with the war lust are dreaming 

The call of the shell. 
What gray heads look up at us sadly ? 
Are these the stern troopers who madly 

Rode straight at the battery's hell ? 



CONFEDERATE BATTLE-FLAGS 37 

Nay, more than the Hving have found us, 
Pale spectres of battle surround us; 

The gray line is dressed. 
Ye hear not, but they who are bringing 
Your symbols of honor are singing 

The song of death's bivouac rest. 

Blow forth on the south wind to greet us, 
O star flag, once eager to meet us 

When war lines were set. 
Go carry to far fields of glory 
The soul-stirring thrill of the story 

Of days when in anger we met. 

Ah, well that we hung in the churches 
In quiet, where God the heart searches ; 



38 CONFEDERATE BATTLE-FLAGS 

That, under us met, 
Men heard through the murmur of praying 
The voice of the torn banners saying, 

"Forgive, but ah ! never forget !'* 



THE PURE OF HEART 

GENNESARET 

O'er my head the starry legions marched upon 

their trackless way ; 
Far below, Gennesaret's waters, silent, in the 

moonlight lay, 
And the Orient, brooding mother of all creeds 

that men hold dear. 
Cast her mystic spell upon me, and I murmured, 

"Was it here?" 

39 



40 THE PURE OF HEART 

Was it here a man, a peasant, strange ambassador 

of God, 
Called to hear His stately message those sad 

children of the sod ; 
Sowed for them hope's boundless harvest, 

lavished for those shepherds rude 
All that wonder-wealth of promise, each divine 

beatitude ? 
Marveling, my thought I carried into sleep, and 

if the earth 
Breathed some memory of the legend, or in 

dreams it had its birth, 
Who may say ? I tell the story as it came to me 

at night, 
From the underworld of slumber, from the 

inner world of light. 



THE PURE OF HEART 4I 

On the hilltop, in the twilight, grave and still the 

Master lay, 
While the westward summits crimsoned, lustrous 

in the dying day. 
What had I to learn, a rabbi, schooled and 

lessoned in the law ? 
Half in doubt and half in wonder, there apart I 

stood, and saw 
How some gentle impulse moved Him, and there 

came upon His face, 
With the final gold of sunset, other light, of joy 

and grace. 
While the mountains cast their shadows, slowly 

cloaking all the hill 
Where the multitude in silence waited on the 

Master^s will; 



42 THE PURE OF HEART 

For His features stirred, uplifted as with 

thought upon the wing, 
Stirred as stirs the great earth-mother when she 

feels her child the spring. 
Wistfully men bided, longing for the voice their 

eyes entreat, 
Forward bent, hands locked, and quiet, till He 

rose upon His feet. 
And He gave as none has given through the long 

and weary years. 
Blessings that have lightened labor, promises 

that answer tears. 
When at last the white-clad peasants slowly 

from the hill withdrew. 
Long I lingered, why I knew not, till at last I 

surely knew 



THE PURE OF HEART 43 

That my soul some yearning counseled, bidding 

me remain. I stayed, 
Bolder for the dark, then heard Him : "Rabbi, 

ask. Be not afraid." 
Low I questioned: "Lord and Master, who most 

surely are the pure ? 
Is it they who, born and dying, have no sorrow 

to endure. 
Like the snow that melts at morning, from the 

soil of earth secure? 
Who is it shall see . . . ?" But spoke not that 

one word is left unsaid 
When the priest intones the psalmist, and the 

sacred scrolls are read. 
"Who is it shall dare behold Him, and the 
Nameless One abide, 



44 THE PURE OF HEART 

When the seraphs' wings are folded, and the 

angel hosts divide ?" 
Then I felt how great my daring, and my 

forehead flushed with shame ; 
Like a child in fear I waited, waited for the 

word of blame. 
But He said, "Draw near, O Rabbi," and those 

strange eyes fell on mine, 
And I knew that not in folly I had sought what 

none divine. 
Touching heart and lips and forehead, as when 

one salutes a friend. 
Low I bent, assured and silent, waiting what 

His heart would send. 
"See, O Rabbi," and a gesture summoned with 

the lifted hand; 



THE PURE OF HEART 45 

Lo, a mighty wind, arising, drave across the 

wakened land. 
Swept Gennesaret's startled waters, beat across 

the billowed grain, 
Waking from its evening quiet, far below, the 

dreaming plain, 
While the gnarled and aged olives wildly- 
swayed above my head, 
Heavy with the summer fruitage wherewithal a 

man is fed. 
Rich with oil that feeds the lamps that keep 

remembrance of the dead. 
And, behold, the wind He summoned for His 

parable, at will. 
Gone as flies a bird, and stillness fell upon the 

lonely hill. 



46 THE PURE OF HEART 

''Thou art learned in all our learning. Once at 

Nazareth I saw 
How men listened to Thy teaching, 'Come and 

read My higher law/ " 
"Rabbi, Rabbi, sweet at evening are the lilies 

bending low ; 
Was it prayer they breathed, when rising from 

their dewy overflow ?" 
Wondering, I answered : "Master, who may 

know? But pure and sweet 
Are they to the desert weary, freshness to the 

sand-hot feet/' 
For I guessed where now He led me, and with 

thought that swift forewent. 
As if spirit spake to spirit, glad at heart, I stood 

intent. 



THE PURE OF HEART 47 

"Lo/' He said, ''behold the oHves failing with the 

summer heat, 
Guarding still their precious harvest, though the 

mad wind on them beat." 
"Yea," I cried. "Oh, surely, Master, strong are 

they, yet pure and sweet." 
For I guessed the fuller meaning of His speech, 

as one foreknows 
When on Lebanon the rose-light prophet of the 

dawning glows. 
And I said : "Not they are purest who, in hermit 

trance of prayer. 
Bide untempted in the desert, sinless as Thy 

lilies were ; 
More there be who share Thy promise, more for 

whom this hope has smiled : 



48 THE PURE OF HEART 

They the burdened, they the weary, they who 

ever, unbeguiled. 
Through the home, the street, the market, bear 

the white heart of the child." 
Lingering, I heard His answer : "Go in peace." 

I moved away, 
While afar the westward summits slowly turned 

from gold to gray. 

Bar Harbor, 
October, 1904. 



LINES GIVEN TO M. AT 
CHRISTMAS 

WITH A GIFT OF THE VIRGIN OF LUINI 

What shall I give thee, dear, to-day, 
Upon this sacred Christmas morn, 

That tells us of the gift of love 
God gave when Christ was born, 

And hope became a seraph winged 
With timeless dreams, and love elate 

Saw with young eyes another world 
Where love's lost angels wait ? 

4 49 



50 LINES GIVEN TO M. 

Ah, small were any richest gift 

Without such love as thro' the years 

Was sweeter for the hour of joy 
And nobler for the day of tears. 

Take, then, with love this gentle face 
That had a more than human share 

Of joy and grief, and haply, too. 

Through the long years of sorrow bore 

In that gray village of the hills 
The sense of some diviner loss 

Than death deals out, and evermore 
The anguish of the lifted cross. 
1905. 



TO THE FORGET-ME-NOTS 

ON THE PASS OF THE MAIDEN^ JAPAN 

Lo ! Fujiyama's snowy cone 
The green horizon bounds, 

And Miajimi's sacred isle, 

And Buddha's temple grounds. 

Ah, once again thy voice is heard ; 

Again we keep our tryst. 
As when upon the Switzer's hill 

I stood amid the mist. 



52 TO THE FORGET-ME-NOTS 

Within the garden's ordered walks 

Thy name alone I hear, 
And miss the gentle voice that calls 

When none but I am near. 

But where the mountain summits rise 

Is ever sacred sod, 
And here thy timid counsel breathes 

A deep appeal to God. 

Ah, least of all the many flowers 
That on my path are set, 

Read me thy Sermon on the Mount : 
What should I not forget? 

"Forget me not." How simple seems 
The counsel shyly given ! 



TO THE FORGET-ME-NOTS 53 

Let each interpret for himself 
This voice of earth and heaven. 

Ah ! once on Albula's gray pass 

I prayed that I might get, 
With foresight of a darker day, 

The sad leave to forget ; 

Nor knew, alas ! how soon would come 
Sore need to urge my prayer. 

Ah, tender maidens of the hill 
That constant sorrow share. 

Forget ? Ah, yes ! the living fade 

From memory, not the dead. 
Thine are their voices as to-day 
These alien hills I tread. 
Tokio. 



PRAYER 

When the day is growing old 
And the stars their vigils keep, 

Lo, a gentle voice v^ithin 
Calling to the fold of sleep. 

Whither, thither, know I not : 
His the silence, His the care, 

When my soul is called to rest, 
Shepherded by quiet prayer. 



54 



THE ANGELS OF PRAYER 

Ye to whom my prayer is given, 

Gentle couriers of heaven, 

Sailing through the world of space 

'Neath the sun of Mary's face. 

To the joy of Mary's grace, 

Let it seem a little child, 

Such as came when Jesu smiled. 



LULLABY 

Holy Mother ! Holy Mother ! 

In the dark I fear. 
Light me with thy shining eyes, 

Be thou ever near. 

Holy Mother ! Holy Mother ! 

Call thy little Son, 
Bid Him bring me praying dreams 

Ere the night be done. 

Call the angels, call them early, 

Bid them fly to thee, 
One to call the little birds, 

One to waken me. 



FRIENDSHIP 

No wail of grief can equal answer win : 

Love's faltering echo may but ill express 
The grief for grief, nor more than faintly mock 

The primal cry of some too vast distress. 
Or is it for fair company of joy 

We ask an equal echo from the heart? 
A certain loneliness is ever ours, 

And friendship mourns her still imperfect art. 

1908. 



57 



LOVE 

" For I have always loved you for many reasons and in many ways." — P. B. 

The daily tribute of the sun 

Lives on, in tree, and fruit, and flower ; 

Lives on, with subtle change of power, 
When the last hour of day is done. 

And what the kindly sun has given, 

Reborn in many a varied form, 

Is in the wind, the sea, the storm, 
And when the lightning flames through heaven, 



LOVE 59 

And is itself again; and so 

Through many ways of diverse change 

Has love equality of range, 
And back again as love may flow ; 

For deathless, as God's sunlight still. 

Its tender ministry renewed 

In each divine beatitude, 
Shall love its purposes fulfil. 



INNOGEN 



A stage direction in the old copies of " Much Ado about Nothing" is: 
*' Enter Leonato, Govemour of Messina, Innogen his wife, Hero his daughter, 
and Beatrice his niece, and a messenger." As the wife of Leonato takes no 
part in the action, and neither speaks nor is spoken to throughout the play, she 
was probably no more than a character the poet had designed in his first sketch 
of the plot, and which he found reason to omit afterward. 



Immortal shadow, faint and ever fair, 

Dear for unspoken words that might have been, 
Compelled to silent sorrow none may share, 

A ghost of Shakespeare's world, unheard, unseen, 
How many more like thee have voiceless stood 

Uncalled upon the threshold of his mind. 
The speechless children of a mighty brood 

Who were and are not ! Never shall they find 
The happier comrades unto whom he gave 

Thought, speech, and action— they who shall 
not know 
The end of our realities, the grave. 

Nor what is sadder, life, nor any human woe. 



INDIAN SUMMER 

The stillness that doth wait on change is here, 
Some pause of expectation owns the hour; 

And faint and far I hear the sea complain 
Where gray and answerless the headlands 
tower. 

Slow fails the evening of the dying year, 
Misty and dim the waiting forests lie, 

Chill ocean winds the wasted woodland 
grieve, 
And earthward loitering the leaves go by. 

6i 



62 INDIAN SUMMER 

Behold how nature answers death ! O'erhead 
The memoried splendor of her summer eves 

Lavished and lost, her wealth of sun and sky, 
Scarlet and gold, are in her drifting leaves. 

Vain pageantry ! for this, alas, is death. 

Nor may the seasons' ripe fulfilment cheat 

My thronging memories of those who died 
With life's young summer promise 
incomplete. 

The dead leaves rustle 'neath my lingering 
tread. 

Low murmuring ever to the spirit ear : 
We were, and yet again shall be once more. 

In the sure circuits of the rolling year. 



INDIAN SUMMER 63 

Trust thou the craft of nature. Lo ! for thee 
A comrade wise she moves, serenely sweet, 

With wilful prescience mocking sense of loss 
For us who mourn love's unreturning feet. 

Trust thou her wisdom, she will reconcile 

The faltering spirit to eternal change 
When, in her fading woodways, thou shalt 
touch 
Dear hands long dead and know them not as 
strange. 

For thee a golden parable she breathes 
Where in the mystery of this repose, 

While death is dreaming life, the waning wood 
With far-caught light of heaven divinely glows. 



64 INDIAN SUMMER 

Thou, when the final loneHness draws near, 
And earth to earth recalls her tired child, 

In the sweet constancy of nature strong 

Shalt dream again — how dying nature smiled. 
Bar Harbor, 190a 



THE SEA-GULL 



The woods are full of merry minstrelsy; 

Glad are the hedges with the notes of spring; 
But o'er the sad and uncompanioned sea 

No love-born voices ring. 

II 

Gray mariner of every ocean clime, 
If I could wander on as sure a wing, 

Or beat with yellow web thy pathless sea, 
I too might cease to sing. 

5 65 



66 THE SEA-GULL 

III 

Would I could share thy silver-flashing swoop, 
Thy steady poise above the bounding deep, 

Or buoyant float with thine instinctive trust, 
Rocked in a dreamless sleep. 

IV 

Thine is the heritage of simple things. 
The untasked liberty of sea and air, 

Some tender yearning for the peopled nest, 
Thy only freight of care. 



Thou hast no forecast of the morrow's need. 
No bitter memory of yesterdays; 



THE SEA-GULL 67 

Nor stirs thy thought that airy sea o'erhead, 
Nor ocean's soundless ways. 

VI 

Thou silent raider of the abounding sea, 
Intent and resolute, ah, who may guess 

What primal notes of gladness thou hast lost 
In this vast loneliness ! 

VII 

Where bides thy mate ? On some lorn ocean rock 
Seaward she watches. Hark ! the one 
shrill cry, 

Strident and harsh, across the wave shall be 
Her welcome — thy reply. 



68 THE SEA-GULL 

VIII 

When first thy sires, with joy-discovered flight. 
High on exultant pinions sped afar. 

Had they no cry of gladness or of love. 
No bugle note of war? 

IX 

What gallant song their happy treasury held, 
Such as the pleasant woodland folk employ, 

The lone sea thunder quelled. Thou hast one note 
For love, for hate, for joy. 



Yet who that hears this stormy ocean voice 

Would not, like them, at last be hushed and stilled, 



THE SEA-GULL 69 

Were all his days through endless ages past 
With this stern music filled ? 



XI 

What matters it ? Ah ! not alone are loved 
Leaf-cloistered poets who can love in song. 

Home to the wild-eyed ! Home ! She will not miss 
The music lost so long. 

XII 

Home ! for the night wind signals, "Get thee home'' ; 

Home, hardy admiral of the rolling deep ; 
Home from the foray ! Home ! That silenced song 

Love's endless echoes keep. 
Bar Harbor, 1897. 



TO A MAGNOLIA FLOWER 

IN THE GARDEN OF THE ARMENIAN CONVENT 
AT VENICE 

I SAW thy beauty in its high estate 

Of perfect empire, where at set of sun 

In the cool twihght of thy lucent leaves 

The dewy freshness told that day was done. 

Hast thou no gift beyond thine ivory cone's 
Surpassing loveliness? Art thou not near— 

More near than we— to nature's silentness: 
Is it not voice ful to thy finer ear? 



TO A MAGNOLIA FLOWER 7I 

Thy folded secrecy doth hke a charm 
Compel to thought. What spring-born 
yearning lies 

Within the quiet of thy stainless breast, 

That doth with languorous passion seem to rise ? 

The soul doth truant angels entertain 
Who with reluctant joy their thoughts 
confess : 

Low-breathing, to these sister spirits give 
The virgin mysteries of thy heart to guess. 

What whispers hast thou from yon childlike sea 
That sobs all night beside these garden walls ? 

Canst thou interpret what the lark hath sung 
When from the choir of heaven her music falls? 



^2 TO A MAGNOLIA FLOWER 

If for companionship of purity 
The equal pallor of the risen moon 

Disturb thy dreams, dost know to read aright 
Her silver tracery on the dark lagoon ? 

The mischief-making fruitfulness of May 
Stirs all the garden folk with vague desires. 

Doth there not reach thine apprehensive ear 
The faded longing of these dark-robed friars^ 

When, in the evening hour to memories given, 
Some gray-haired man amid the gathering 
gloom 
For one delirious moment sees again 
The gleam of eyes and white- walled 
Erzeroum ? 



TO A MAGNOLIA FLOWER 73 

Hast thou not loved him for this human dream ? 

Or sighed with him who yester-evening sat 
Upon the low sea-wall, and saw through tears 

His ruined home and snow-clad Ararat? 

If thou art dowered with some refined sense 
That shares the counsels of the nesting 
bird, 

Canst hear the mighty laughter of the earth, 
And all that ear of man hath never heard ? 

If the abysmal stillness of the night 
Be eloquent for thee, if thou canst read 

The glowing rubric of the morning song. 
Doth each new day no gentle warning 
breed ? 



74 TO A MAGNOLIA FLOWER 

Shall not the gossip of the maudlin bee, 
The fragrant history of the fallen rose, 

Unto the prescience of instinctive love 
Some humbler prophecy of joy disclose? 

Cold vestal of the leafy convent-cell, 
The traitor days have thy calm trust 
betrayed ; 
The sea-wind boldly parts thy shining 
leaves 
To let the angel in. Be not afraid ! 

The gold-winged sun, divinely penetrant, 
The pure annunciation of the morn 

Breathes o'er thy chastity, and to thy soul 
The tender thrill of motherhood is borne. 



TO A MAGNOLIA FLOWER 75 

Set wide the glory of thy radiant bloom ! 

Call every wind to share thy scented breaths ! 
No life is brief that doth perfection win. 

To-day is thine — to-morrow thou art death's ! 

Cortina d'Ampezzo, 
July, 1897. 



JEKYL ISLAND 

EBB-TIDE 

Fading light on a lonely beach, 

A slow out-creeping tide 

That leaves to me on sea-etched sands 
The ocean's cryptic speech. 

Adown the ever broadening strand 

Moon-witched waters steal, 

And over the dunes a wild wind swoops 
And frets the silted sand. 



STORM-WAVES AND FOG ON DORR'S 
POINT, BAR HARBOR 

The fog's gray curtain round me draws, 

And leaves no world to me 
Save this swift drama of the stirred 
And restless sea. 

Forth of the shrouding fog they roll. 

As from a viewless world, 
Leap spectral white, and, pausing, break, 
In thunder hurled. 

77 



78 STORM-WAVES AND FOG ON DORR's POINT 

Ever they climb and cling anew, 

Slide from the smooth rock wall, 
With thin white fingers grip the weeds 
And seaward crawl. 

In rhythmic rote o'er shivering sands 

They glide adown the shore 

With murmurous whispering of *'Hush !' 

And then no more. 
1907. 



THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON 
1900 

Remembering him we praise to-day, 
Hushed is the mighty roar of trade, 

And, pausing on its ardent way, 
A nation's homage here is paid. 

Upon the great Virginian's grave 

Look down the new-born century's eyes. 

Where by his loved Potomac wave 
In God's long rest His soldier lies. 

A hundred years have naught revealed 
To blot this manhood's record high. 

That blazoned duty's stainless shield 
And set a star in honor's sky/ 



So THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON 

In self -approval firm, his life 

Serenely passed through darkest days ; 

In calm or storm, in peace or strife, 

Unmoved by blame, unstirred by praise. 

No warrior pride disturbed his peace, 
Nor place nor gain. He loved his fields. 

His home, the chase, his land's increase, 
The simple life that nature yields. 

And yet for us" all man could give 
He gave, with that which never dies, 

The gift through which great nations live. 
The lifelong gift of sacrifice. 

With true humility he learned 
The game of war, the art of rule ; 



THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON 8 1 

And, calmly patient, slowly earned 
His competence in life's large school. 

Well may we honor him who sought 
To live with one unfailing aim, 

And found at last, unasked, unsought, 
In duty's path, the jewel, fame! 

And He who girded him with power. 

And gave him strength to do the right, 
Will ask of us, in some stern hour, 
"How have ye used the gift of might?'* 

Since, till this harried earth shall gain 
The heaven of Thy peace, O Lord ! 

Freedom and Law will need to reign 
Beneath the shadow of the sword. 



FLORENCE 1 

APRIL FIRST 

Come, let us be the willing fools 

Of April's earliest day, 
And dream we own all pleasant things 

The years have reft away. 

'T is but to take the poet's wand, 

A touch or here or there, 
And I have lost that ancient stoop, 

And you are young and fair. 

Ah, no! The years that gave and took 

Have left with you and me 
The wisdom of the widening stream ; 

Trust we the larger sea. 

1 Except the last two lines, which I failed to capture, the rest of these verses 
I composed while asleep. I have many times seemed to make verses in sleep ; 
only thrice could I recall them on waking. The four lines called "Which" 
were also made in sleep. The psychological interest of this sleep product may 
excuse this personal statement. 

82 



WHICH? 

Birth-day or Earth-day, 
Which the true mirth-day? 
Earth-day or birth-day, 
Which the well-worth day? 



February 15, 1909. 



83 



BOOKS AND THE MAN^ 

When the years gather round us like stern foes 
That give no quarter, and the ranks of love 

Break here and there, untouched there still abide 
Friends whom no adverse fate can wound or 
move: 

A deathless heritage, for these are they 
Who neither fail nor falter ; we, alas ! 

Can hope no more of friendship than to fill 
The mortal hour of earth and, mortal, pass. 

1 William Osier. Read to the Charaka Club, March 4, 1905. 
84 



BOOKS AND THE MAN 85 

Steadfast and generous, they greet us still 
Through every fortune with unchanging 
looks, 

Unasked no counsel give, are silent folk ; 

The careless-minded lightly call them books. 

Of the proud peerage of the mind are they, 
Fair, courteous gentlemen who wait our will 

When come the lonely hours the scholar loves. 
And glows the hearth and all the house is still. 

Wilt choose for guest the good old doctor 
knight, 

Quaint, learned and odd, or very wisely shrewd. 
Or with Dan Chaucer win a quiet hour 

Far from our noisy century's alien mood? 



86 BOOKS AND THE MAN 

Wilt sail great seas on rhythmic lyrics borne, 
In the high company of gallant souls, 

Where, ringed with stately death, proud Grenville 
lies. 
Or the far thunder of the Armada rolls ? 

Wilt call that English lad Fabricius taught 
And Padua knew, and that heroic soul — 

Our brave Vesalius? Long the list of 
friends, 
Far through the ages runs that shining roll. 

How happy he who, native to their tongue, 
A mystic language reads between the lines : 

Gay, gallant fancies, songs unheard before. 
Ripe with the worldle.ss wisdom love divines ; 



BOOKS AND THE MAN 8/ 

Rich with dumb records of long centuries past, 
The viewless dreams of poet, scholar, sage ; 

What marginalia of unwritten thought 

With glowing rubrics deck the splendid page ! 

Some ghostly presence haunts the lucid phrase 
Where Bacon pondered o'er the words we scan. 

Here grave Montaigne with cynic wisdom 
played, 
And lo, the book becomes for us a man ! 

Shall we not find more dear the happy page 
Where Lamb, forgetting sorrow, loved to dwell, 

Or that which won from Thackeray's face a 
smile. 
Or lit the gloom of Raleigh's prison cell ? 



88 BOOKS AND THE MAN 

And if this gentle company has made 

The comrade heart to pain an easier prey, 

They, too, were heirs of sorrow ; well they know 
With what brave thoughts to charm thy cares 
away. 

And shouldst thou crave an hour's glad reprieve 
From mortal cares that mock the mind's control. 

For thee Cervantes laughs the world away ! 
What priest is wiser than our Shakespeare's 
soul? 

Show me his friends and I the man shall know ; 

This wiser turn a larger wisdom lends : 
Show me the books he loves and I shall know 

The man far better than through mortal 
friends. 



BOOKS AND THE MAN 89 

Do you perchance recall when first we met, 
And gaily winged with thought the flying 
night, 
And won with ease the friendship of the 
mind? — 
I like to call it friendship at first sight. 

And then you found with us a second home, 
And, in the practice of life's happiest art, 

You little guessed how readily you won 
The added friendship of the open heart. 

And now a score of years has fled away 
In noble service of life's highest ends, 

And my glad capture of a London night 
Disputes with me a continent of friends. 

6* 



90 BOOKS AND THE MAN 

But you and I may claim an older date, 
The fruitful amity of forty years, — 

A score for me, a score for you, and so 
How simple that arithmetic appears ! 

But are old friends the best ? What age, I ask, 
Must friendships own to earn the title old ? 

Shall none seem old save he who won or lost 
When fists were up or ill-kept wickets 
bowled ? 

Are none old friends who never blacked your 
eyes? 

Or with a shinny whacked the youthful shin? 
Or knew the misery of the pliant birch? 

Or, apple-tempted, shared in Adam's sin ? 



BOOKS AND THE MAN 9I 

Grave Selden saith, and quotes the pedant King, 
Old friends are best, and, like to well-worn 
shoes. 

The oldest are the easiest. Not for me ! 
The easy friend is not the friend I choose. 

But if the oldest friends are best indeed, 

I 'd have the proverb otherwise expressed — 

Friends are not best because they 're merely old. 
But only old because they proved the best. 



TO ABRAHAM JACOBI, M.D. 

AT THE DINNER GIVEN TO CELEBRATE HIS 
SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY 

No honors hath the State for you whose life 
From youth to age has known one single end. 

Take from our lips two w^ell-won titles now, 
Magister et Amicus— Master, Friend. 

Here on the summit of attainment's peak, 

Far from the rugged path you knew to climb, 

Take, with our thanks for high example set. 

The palm of honor in this festal time. 
92 



TO ABRAHAM JACOBI, M.D. 93 

Constant and brave, in no ignoble cause 
The hopes of freedom armed thy sturdy 
youth ; 

As true and brave in these maturer years 
Thy ardent struggle in the cause of truth. 

Nor prison bars, nor yet the lonely cell. 

Could break thy vigor of unconquered will ; 

And the gray years which build as cruel walls 
Have found and left thee ever victor still. 

Ave Magister ! Take from us to-night 

The well-earned praise of all who love our art 

For this long season of unending work. 

For strength of brain, and precious wealth of 
heart. 



94 TO ABRAHAM JACOBI, M.D. 

Much gave your busy hand ; but, ah, far more, 
The gallant life that taught men how to meet 

Unfriended exile, sorrow, want, and all 

That crush the weak with failure and defeat. 

We gave you here a home ; you well have paid 
With many gifts proud freedom's generous 
hand 

That bade you largely breathe a freer air. 
And made you welcome to a freer land. 

Ave Amice ! If around this board 

Are they who watched you thro' laborious 
years. 

Beyond these walls, in many a grateful home, 
Your step dismissed a thousand pallid fears. 



TO ABRAHAM JACOBI, M.D. 95 

That kindly face, that gravely tender look, 
Thro' darkened hours how many a mother 
knew! 
And in that look won sweet reprieve of hope, 
Sure that all earth could give was there with 
you. 

Ave Magister ! Many be the years 

That lie before thee, thronged with busy hours ! 
Ave Amice ! Take our earnest prayer 

That all their ways fair fortune strew with 
flowers. 



IN MEMORY OF 
WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND 

THE CANADIAN POET 

Peace to his poet soul. Full well he knew 
To sing for those who know not how to praise 

The woodsman's life, the farmer's patient toil, 
The peaceful drama of laborious days. 

He made his own the thoughts of simple men, 

And with the touch that makes the world akin, 

A welcome guest of lonely cabin homes, 

Found, too, no heart he could not enter in. 
96 



IN MEMORY OF W. H. DRUMMOND 9/ 

The toil-worn doctor, women, children, men, 
The humble heroes of the lumber drives. 

Love, laugh, or weep along his peopled verse. 
Blithe 'mid the pathos of their meagre lives. 

While thus the poet-love interpreted. 

He left us pictures no one may forget — 
Courteau, Baptiste, Camille mon frere, and, 
best. 
The good, brave cure, he of Calumette. 

With nature as with man at home, he loved 
The silent forest and the birches' flight 

Down the white peril of the rapids' rush, 
And the cold glamour of the Northern 
night. 



98 IN MEMORY OF W. H. DRUMMOND 

Some mystery of genius haunts his page, 
Some wonder-secret of the poet's spell 

Died with this master of the peasant thought. 
Peace to this Northland singer, and farewell ! 



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